Seven Minutes
by Rigel99
Summary: How to pull your agent back from the edge - Quartermaster style...


_**NOTE: Slot this little interlude between Chapters 6 and 7 of "Where Angels Fear To Tread." That's where it belongs.**_

He reached a hand around his back to grab James' shoulder and was awarded with a small jolt of electricity coursing through the narrow gap between them from the fabric of his jacket to Q's index finger.

"No touching," James whispered.

Q withdrew his hand and placed it back on the mirror, his mind a pulsing riot, images straining against each other, warring for his attention. Q found himself focussing on the movements of Bond's hands, those in which his lips were currently engaged being too overwhelming to begin to contemplate. Bond's fingers were like soldering irons across the planes of his still-clothed spine, trailing down to come briefly to rest at the back of his thighs. Q marvelled at the sensation of the skin currently responding to James' touch, rising in its wake, as though chasing the heat, like the points of metal on a circuit board would chase the heat of the iron as it pulled away.

"Are you still watching?" whispered James, barely pulling his lips away from the current focus of his plundering attentions.

"Yeesss…"

"Good."

Q's pliant and relaxing responses were having a similar effect on James. The agent rose from his crouched position to glide his hands up the sides of Q's body and wrapped one arm around his still jumper-encased torso whilst using his other hand to free himself.

Bond couldn't resist a smile when he allowed his gaze to meet Q's over his shoulder in their reflection. "Are you sure you can see, Arthur? Your glasses appear to be suffering from a layer of condensation."

Q pitched his head down to reveal eyes in which Bond could easily drown, and frequently did.

"If you didn't have me in such a vulnerable position, 007…"

The violence of the past hour was fast becoming dull, muted white noise in the back of Bond's mind, replaced by the throb and hum of the beautiful man pressed against him, surrendering to their mutual need.

…"You might find—Ah!"

Pushing forward, James felt his control ebb back through him, his Quartermaster grounding him completely again.

"But I have you exactly where we both want you to be. Do I not, my beautiful, complicated mind?"

Arthur Clifton was in no position to argue.

Q allowed the muscles in his body to unfurl, each word accompanied by James' demands to succumb, his body welcoming yet another consummation of their union in the wake of devastation and blood.

Such was the burden of the modern day soldier.

Each push was excruciating in its gentleness, the feel of a firm, velvet rose petal drenched in summer rain. Q struggled to focus on his reflection while James' soft touch, in complete diametric opposition to the violence the agent had just waged on Britain's enemies, persistently nudged him towards the edge of his own sanity.

"Look at me, Arthur." Q allowed himself a glance. The look of complete trust and devotion was almost too much.

It was too much.

James could only continue to smile at the flush travelling up Q's neck to infuse his cheeks. He chased the heat with his mouth, teeth and tongue unerring and relentless in their pursuit of Q's pleasure. It was beautiful. He was beautiful. He was his, settling around him like an aura of possession. It swirled and swelled inside him, seeking release lest he implode.

"Jammmeesss…"

It shouldn't come as a surprise to the Quartermaster despite their both being nearly fully-clothed, James Bond could drive him out of his own mind with desire and need.

James' gripping embrace tightened around his chest for the briefest of moments, his gaze locked and never leaving that of Q's, before he pitched forward with a growl that would have made Q's cats run for cover. He fell forward and reached up to brace his hands on either side of Q's against the mirror.

Breath returning to normality with more speed than it had any right, James' withdrew from his Quartermaster and turned him around. He pressed his back against the mirror, firm, strong hands bracing his forearms to the wall. The kiss was hard, demanding everything Q had left to give. Combined with a few well-targeted moves from James' hips against his partner had Q moaning his name with a reverence that for the briefest of seconds had James thinking maybe there was a God. If he did create man in his own image, it would have been appropriately made in the image of his Quartermaster in this moment, the seventh minute since he had entered the room. Minutes are precious to those who walk the fine line between life and death.

Most days.

Today, it paid to count them.

Q was looking at him with a sated, sombre expression. "I wonder. Will it always be like this, James?"

James leaned back but kept their hips pressed together, burying his hands in Q's impossible, inviting waves. "I hope so," he murmured. "I've found I quite enjoy dying on my feet for Q and Country."


End file.
